


A Hunger Outmatched

by victorine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A little bit of fluff, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Cannibalism, Did you just smell me?, Hannibal POV, Hannibal gets frustrated, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Mind Games, Obsession, References to canon but not faithful, Sex, Vampire Will, Vampires, all the basics, it's pretty debatable, mild dub con, read the original it'll make more sense, though that's debatable too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6378709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/pseuds/victorine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In their first psychiatric session, Will Graham proves worthy of Hannibal Lecter's interest and the doctor resolves to possess the profiler's mind. As their relationship progresses and deepens, though, Hannibal begins to realise that he may not be the one in control of the situation. And that Will Graham is not all he appears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hooked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voxofthevoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Particular Hungers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2147883) by [voxofthevoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid). 



> So, when I read the outstanding Vamp!Will fic 'Particular Hungers' by the charming and talented Silverfeathered_Angel, I mentioned in a comment that it would be fascinating to see the story (in which Hannibal is toyed with by a very dark, bloodsuckery version of our favourite empath) from Hannibal's point of view. She was kind enough to give me permission to write the thing and this is the result.
> 
> I cannot stress enough how much you should go read the amazing original fic (and its sequel "Taste of Death"). Not only because I'm not sure how much this makes sense on its own (seriously, there's a whole thing with Abigail in the original that I couldn't even reference cos of the POV here) but because the series is fantastic and its version of dark!Will is just wickedly delicious.
> 
> The vast majority of the dialogue is taken verbatim from 'Particular Hungers,' so credit goes to Silverfeathered_Angel for that, as well as the story and for generally being awesome.

Another dullard with an oh-so-predictable case of post-kill trauma. Hannibal accepts that he is unlikely to meet with anyone freely admitting to post-kill _euphoria_ , outside of Chilton’s kingdom of failures anyway, but it is tedious to feign sympathy for these soft, limited creatures. He should have known that Jack Crawford’s assessment of “something special,” as he had promised of the young man now inhabiting Hannibal's office, would fall short of his own.

Admittedly, Will Graham is not without superficial charm – his face, once shaven, would be classically beautiful in a way Hannibal might sketch in an idle moment, and the lines of his body are lithe and lean. Without an engaging mind behind the façade, though, Hannibal rarely finds much to interest him beyond the potential for stocking his freezer and given that the younger man retains a position of some status in Jack’s team – not to mention that despite his clear discomfort at being here, he has not yet been rude in any way – there seems little point in marking him as prey. Best simply to provide a cursory assessment, approve him for active duty – Hannibal has no wish to argue with Crawford, who clearly wants this man back in the field, and no compunction in indulging him – and wave him out the door.

Hannibal realises that he has been interacting with only the faintest attention when Graham’s tone turns snappish in response to a question about the profiler’s reluctance to undertake therapy.

“I don’t _think_  I don’t require therapy, Dr Lecter. I know I don’t. I’m neither traumatised nor drowning in guilt. I’m not happy I made a mistake but the only reason I’m here is because Jack won’t let me return to work otherwise.”

That was… not an expression of euphoria, certainly, but also as far from the expected snivelling account of guilt and horror as Hannibal had ever heard. It was so… _pragmatic_.

_I wonder how high your heart rate rose as you pulled the trigger, William. Not as high as would be seemly, I suspect._

Perhaps he had underestimated Jack. This one might just be worth a moment of full attention. He leans forward and notices a faint flicker of satisfaction on Will’s face at his increased interest. Apparently the profiler could read him more accurately than most. Not well enough to become a problem, he hopes.

“That is an unusual reaction, Will. To treat murder so callously.”

A small smile, then, that might be self-loathing and might be amusement. Hannibal finds himself unexpectedly rooting for the latter.

“Perhaps. But that doesn’t change how I feel.”

Not self-loathing, then. _Ever more interesting._

“Tell me, Will, what exactly do you do for the F.B.I.?”

 “I catch killers,” Will bares his teeth and Hannibal thinks he has rarely seen anything so enchanting, “by thinking like them.”

_Fascinating._ Not five minutes ago he had already mentally dismissed Will Graham from his sphere of existence. _Foolish. Impatient._ He had so nearly allowed this remarkable creature to slip through his grasp. Perhaps Will would have been better off not being so forthcoming. Attracting Hannibal’s attention is rarely a blessing for the recipient. However, Will seems so intent on laying himself so temptingly in Hannibal's web, demonstrating a mind capable of true understanding as if it were a lure specifically designed for the doctor. Control over such a power would be… _thrilling_. And yet, more tantalising still is the prospect of partnership, the potential to see and be seen. At that thought, Hannibal is hooked, unexpectedly and irrevocably, and knows the next act of his life will be to bind Will Graham to him, as close as a second skin.


	2. A Mutual Darkness

Much to Hannibal's satisfaction, Will has freely returned to the office for four further sessions over the fortnight following their first meeting. He had wondered if the profiler would simply take his approval for duty and run, prompting the need for a little manipulation of Jack Crawford to herd him back to therapy. Happily, though, Jack has once again proved an ally in the continued relationship between psychiatrist and profiler, insisting that Will continue to see Dr Lecter but suggesting (in Jack’s inimitable fashion of suggestion-as-demand) that their sessions should be unofficial and, therefore, off the F.B.I.’s records. That this allows Jack to ask for detailed reports of Will's progress is of course, he assured Hannibal, simply an incidental benefit and for Will's own good. And Hannibal, in turn, is happy to frame his _pro bono_ work as a favour to a friend, as well as a chance to engage with Will’s _unique_ abilities.

The unofficial status of their _conversations_ seems to ease Will's discomfort to some degree, allowing him to become more forthcoming with the psychiatrist. They quickly establish a rhythm like that of old friends. Yet Hannibal still observes some other tension building in the younger man. Will's gaze just occasionally rests on Hannibal's throat with a strange intensity, or his fingers flex while they converse, as he runs his tongue along his teeth. Self-soothing behaviours, perhaps, but Hannibal also notes that Will's breaths tend to grow deeper when the two are in close proximity (which Hannibal seeks to arrange as often as can be deemed appropriate). There is an obvious interpretation for this, of course, but Hannibal does not allow himself to believe that Will is attracted to him on a sexual level yet – he has smelled no arousal on the man and felt no heat building from him when they stand close. For his own part he has considered Will in this respect, concluding that it would be a pleasurable addition to their relationship and one he will pursue in earnest as it develops, but Hannibal has a steely control of himself in this respect as in all others, and will not risk this connection for a bout of instant gratification.

Despite this sporadic oddness, their discussions are wide-ranging, complex, and the most lively Hannibal has ever engaged in. He is delighted to discover that Will is learned and erudite, in a way not suggested by his down-home appearance or his background as a police officer. Had Hannibal not quickly recognised a voracious reader in the reverent manner in which Will treats the treasure trove of books in his office, the profiler's ability to keep up with and often surpass Hannibal's own boundless knowledge would have informed him thus. Their intellectual compatibility might have been enough, Hannibal admits to himself, to convince him to groom Will as a pet; a loyal, unquestioning companion in the mould of one of Will's strays. Fortunately, the profiler continues to prove himself a match in other aspects as well, solidifying Hannibal's intent to claim him as a partner. The refusal to sentimentalise death and violence had not been a bluff designed to expedite a return to duty, as had seemed possible. Instead, Will continues to hint at a thrilling darkness within, a capacity for the kind of acts that sustain Hannibal through the mundanity of the world. When he describes murder scenes it is not with the shuddering disgust of a lesser man, but with a kind of blunt lyricism and a respect for the killer’s vision usually reserved for master artists or composers. It is enchanting. Hannibal longs to watch Will's mind coil around his own work, to hear the carefully shaded but unmistakeable awe in his hushed voice.

It is time for Will to receive a gift.


	3. A Soul Made to Bloom

Hannibal watches as Will turns from examining his – rather lovely, Hannibal thinks – new gift of a crime scene, moving as if pulled by an invisible line, his gaze immediately finding Hannibal's own.

_As if he sensed me even before he saw me._ What a lovely idea, to be bonded to Will in such a visceral way, Hannibal thinks, holding back a pleased smile. The profiler’s own expression is half curiosity, half irritation. Will has grown to be reasonably comfortable with Hannibal in the doctor’s office – as comfortable as the twitchy, insular man is likely to be at this stage, at least – but he remains unimpressed and unconvinced by Jack’s apparent attempts to babysit him in the field. He has no idea, of course, that Hannibal has encouraged Jack to employ him in this respect, whenever possible, but the simmering resentment between Crawford and his prize profiler is of potential use to Hannibal and so Will remains uninformed.

It was out of the question, in any case, for Hannibal to be absent from this scene. Not after he had spent five weeks designing, hunting and constructing it. Not when he finally has the opportunity to witness Will’s mind inhabit his own, to hear his voice express and _understand_ his design. It is sheer narcissism, Hannibal is aware, but he has worked hard on this gift and is eager for his reward.

Following Jack, Hannibal approaches Will, whose gaze remains firmly directed at the psychiatrist. Ever-impatient, Jack instantly demands to know whether this could be credited to his nemesis. Ever-insightful, Will gives his assent: “Yes, it’s the Chesapeake Ripper. Finally showing up after over a year of absence. Quite the comeback too.”

_Why thank you, dear Will. All for you, of course._

Jack raises a brow in warning at Will's flippancy but, for once, refrains from raising his voice. If he is relieved at this, Will doesn’t show it, still training his sight on Hannibal, who is carefully projecting nothing but professionalism and interest in his patient, rather than his roaring impatience to hear Will’s critique. Something else is building in Will's eyes, the initial irritation at Hannibal’s presence replaced by… what? Intrigue? Desire? Not suspicion, Hannibal hopes, that would be inconvenient. His hackles rise, just slightly, but then Will is turning from him, back to the Ripper’s display. Evidently, some connection had just made itself known, nothing to do with Hannibal at all. He wonders what Bedelia would have to say on the risks of egotism.

Hannibal watches, rapt, as Will once again considers the body in front of them. Young, and once pretty, Hannibal had transformed the worthless man – a drug dealer who preyed on teenagers, someone Will might choose to dispose of himself, in other circumstances – into a thing of rare beauty.

His arms and legs had been unburdened of their flesh, exposing the well-formed muscles beneath. _Your strength, hidden within, which I alone can see._

His eyes had been sewn shut. _Your sight, more than mere anatomy. You alone see me._

His torso had been split open and cleared out, and now burst with flowers of deep purple and stark white. _Your soul, which I would fill with my own. You alone are my love._

It was provocation, declaration, invitation, all. For Will, from the only person who truly saw him, in hopes of being seen in return.

Hannibal can hardly wait for his response.

And neither, it seems, can Jack.

“Tell me what you see, Will?” Hannibal rejoices in the man’s impatience.

“I will. But first, tell me what you’re doing here Dr Lecter?”

_Never easy, are you my boy?_ “I’m here at Jack’s behest. He thought a fresh perspective could be useful. After all, the Ripper seems to be quite elusive.”

Blue eyes glance to Jack, perhaps worrying over a loss of faith in Will's abilities, or simply out of irritation, then back to Hannibal. “Oh, he is. In fact, I’d very much like to know what coaxed him out into the open so abruptly.” Will's tone is coy, edged with sarcasm. Both completely inappropriate and utterly delightful. Now would come his reckoning.

“You have a theory?” No eagerness bleeds into Hannibal's tone to betray his anticipation.

Will's own voice is soft, humming with the satisfaction of insight. “I think the Ripper was… inspired.” He sounds as if he is reciting poetry. “Something or perhaps _someone_ has caught his attention. This is a performance dedicated to the source of that inspiration. He’s curious to see what reaction this will elicit.”

_Breathtaking._ Hannibal has never subscribed to the theory that art requires an audience for validation. He enjoys the attention his works receive, is amused by Jack’s desperation to catch him, entertained by the lurid accounts published by Freddie Lounds and her ilk, but he alone understands the meaning of his actions and that is enough. _Was_ enough, until, within the space of four sentences, Will Graham had shown him the glory of recognition. Of appreciation. He will not, Hannibal determines, be without it again.

Having poked at Will until satisfied he had wrung his empathy dry, Jack departs to confer with a young blonde woman, whose keenly intelligent expression might have piqued Hannibal's interest on another day. Left with Will to himself, though, the doctor acknowledges little but the opportunity to move closer to the profiler, framing him between artwork and creator. He cannot help but to poke a little further himself, asking, “Tell me, Will, how do you see the Chesapeake Ripper?”

Will, who had been looking once more at the floral display, turns and peers instead at Hannibal, sure and confident in his measure of the killer. “He is a wolf among sheep.” Hannibal feels a thrill in his spine. “An apex predator.”

How can the man know him so well, yet not see what stands before him? Suddenly it infuriates Hannibal as much as it relieves him. He had wanted so much to watch Will inhabit his work, but so soon it is not enough. He wants Will to _know_. But knowledge without assured acceptance will bring an end to one of them. Too high a price. Too soon to move. Still, a step had been made today. Hannibal will content himself with that, for now.


	4. Turn About Is Fair Play

Hannibal Lecter is a more patient man than most. He has made sure of it. He does not make a move until it is appropriate. He does not act impulsively. He lies in wait.

Will Graham is sorely testing this.

“I’m curious, Dr Lecter, about how much longer these sessions will have to continue.”

Three weeks since his declaration and _this_ is the response? The query had come from the corner of his office, where Will stood petting a statue of a stag as if it were one of his strays. He might as well have enquired after the weather, for all the weight the question was given.

Hannibal feels his hands clench the arms of his chair in frustration but quickly tamps himself down into professional equanimity. In response, he resorts to an old psychiatrist trick, one question for another: “Do you wish for them to end, Will?” Hannibal is not entirely sure how he will repair the situation if Will answers in the affirmative but he knows that trying to force the stubborn profiler to continue will certainly have the opposite effect. _If you love something, set it free._ “I suppose it is not exactly necessary to continue. After all, you’ve already returned to the field and we are both aware of the fact that your mishap has not affected you in any worrisome ways.”

This is a lie. If Hannibal were a good man – he is, of course, an excellent psychiatrist – he would never have allowed Will to return to active duty. He is neither physically healthy, consistently pale and thin, nor mentally suited to the field, his blasé attitude to violence something that would raise several red flags to any other assessor. Still, it will do no harm to remind Will of how Hannibal has supported and eased his return to work. Ostensibly.

Will takes a moment to consider, still manhandling the stag, before turning with what can only be described as a _wicked_ smirk on his face. “And if I want to continue?”

_If it returns, it is yours forever._ Is Will… _playing_ with him? _How unexpectedly delightful._ There is no predicting the man. He appears, to all outside observers, to be surly, withdrawn and unstable. Yet he could display wit, charm and playfulness with apparent ease when he wanted to. Hannibal himself had once assumed he would be an easy thing to break, if not to bind. He is now beginning to realise that Will Graham is a subject requiring years of study merely to grasp, let alone influence.

Hannibal does not allow his pleasure to reach his face. Instead he crooks a mildly exasperated but indulgent brow at Will and answers, “I am not at all averse to the idea. Although I must admit that these sessions now feel less like therapy and more like a series of conversations.” Perhaps Will is in fact looking for confirmation that their relationship will endure past the need for sessions like these. Perhaps the connection-starved man is unknowingly responding to Hannibal's bloody declaration with one of his own, a plea for friendship outwith the doctor/patient template.

Seemingly wishing to backtrack, mindful perhaps of rejection or propriety, Will redirects to the professional. “I find it helpful to discuss the cases with you. Your perspective is interesting and… refreshing.”

_Possessing inside knowledge does give one unique insight._

“I am very glad to hear that, Will.” Trite, and far from encompassing his feelings regarding Will's grasp for commitment but it seems to satisfy the younger man, who finally moves from his corner. Not, though, for the seat opposite Hannibal but towards his desk, which currently showcases a quite fine charcoal sketch of the Sistine Chapel which Hannibal had been working on prior to Will's appointment. He rises and crosses to stand with Will, eager to hear his assessment of Hannibal’s more socially acceptable artwork.

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

_Amongst other things._

“It’s a very productive way of passing time.” Will looks amused at his nonchalance and even smiles as Hannibal moves closer to him, which pleases Hannibal to such an extent he finds himself leaning in to scent the younger man.

Both men freeze, Will presumably in affront, Hannibal in confusion.

Beneath the reek of a truly heinous aftershave and the lingering odour of dog that clung to his clothes, Will possessed no scent of his own. None. Hannibal had read about such a phenomenon in a novel, once, but has never heard of such a thing outside of the fictional.

Will spins to face him. “Did you just smell me?”

_Well I tried to._

There has to be a rational explanation for this. Ruthlessly efficient personal hygiene. Medical-grade antiperspirant. Botox. It is not possible for Will to have no scent whatsoever. It is also not possible to ask him for an explanation, nor to continue to gaze at him in confusion.

“Difficult to avoid,” and Hannibal's tone is as smooth and unruffled as could be. “I really must introduce you to a finer aftershave.”

_And possibly some very discreet swabs._

Will seems to overcome his objection to being scented quickly, shrugging and making some remark about unwanted Christmas gifts that Hannibal only half hears. It is possible, he considers, that Will Graham is a puzzle that no man can solve, but he has never before felt such an urge to try.


	5. Blood, Fish and Bonemeal

Will Graham is not simply a puzzle, Hannibal discovers over the next month. Will Graham is the most _infuriating_ puzzle Hannibal has ever encountered, complex, sensitive and ever-shifting, seeming to twist and change every time Hannibal believes he has got his measure. Yet he is also maddeningly, tantalisingly compelling and Hannibal has no intention of casting him off before he has winnowed out every fibre of the man’s being. _Or ever after_.

After all, Hannibal is used to men and women falling in line with his plans with little effort required. A challenge is a welcome entertainment.

That said, he is not above admitting to a minor amount of concern at the lack of control he seems to have over the situation. He is, after all, the one manipulating Will, not the other way around.

It's just that, more often that he would like, it appears to be the other way around.

Which is perhaps why he insists, with force carefully shaded as courtesy, that Will attend dinner at Hannibal's home following one of their appointments. In his kitchen and in his dining room, Hannibal is the sole and ultimate wielder of control. From there, he will provide Will with sustenance, comfort and security. He will bring the man fully under Hannibal's influence. And then, he will seduce him, giving Will pleasure that he will crave and pursue, binding him to Hannibal with desire.

For Hannibal's part, he finds sex enjoyable but unnecessary, easily able to resist its lure unless indulging might prove beneficial to him in some way. He is in no way above using it to gain influence over others, including Will Graham. Who, Hannibal is now certain – another way in which he had misinterpreted the man – is shyly but keenly receptive to such a development. He has noticed the increased eye contact – still minimal from anyone else but practically brazen from the profiler – gaze flickering up from beneath long, dark lashes, then skittering away as if burnt. Despite his touch taboo, Will has allowed for gentle physical contact from his psychiatrist, a hand on his arm, a hip pressed to his own, touches that could be mistaken for friendship and meant as anything but. And still, the strange, intense gaze at his throat, fingers touched to Will's mouth as if to simulate contact where he really desires it. Will Graham _wants_. And Hannibal is nothing if not a provider.

And then there is, of course, the other mystery of Will Graham to consider. Hannibal still has no idea why the man has so little scent (he refuses to believe he has _none_ ) and a sexual relationship will allow him intimate access to Will's body, his to explore and catalogue. In sating Will's desires, he will sate some of his own curiosity and Hannibal considers that to be a very fair exchange.

“ _Sole au Vin Blanc,_ ” Hannibal declares, sweeping into the dining room where Will is waiting, setting before him a dish of Dover sole fillet, blanketed in a buttery white wine sauce and elegantly garnished with shellfish and mushrooms.

“You made me fish,” Will murmurs and Hannibal beams with satisfaction.

“For our first proper meal together, I thought I would cater to your tastes. Those with which I am familiar, in any case.” Will gives one of those burning glances at these words and Hannibal knows his implication has been inferred.

Admittedly, Hannibal has also indulged his own tastes in the accompanying dish of braised lettuce, peas and bacon – the latter hand-cured by Hannibal after the slaughter of a bad-tempered and pushy gallery owner. Still, Hannibal considers his choice of entrée to be a gesture of remarkably generous restraint on his behalf.

Though when Will actually moans with pleasure around his first bite, Hannibal begins to wonder how long he wants that restraint to last.

Afterwards, when their plates have been cleaned, Will offers to help with the dishes and while Hannibal would usually brush him off under the guise of the generous host, he acquiesces, keen to keep Will close. As they stand, hip to hip, and the coy flirtation of dinner gives way to something more blatant, Hannibal believes he has succeeded in tipping the scales back in his favour. He will show Will to his study and then provide him the tenderness and care he needs and will come to depend on Hannibal for.

It comes as some surprise then, as they are leaving the kitchen, for Hannibal to find himself pushed roughly against the wall of his foyer while Will kisses him, firmly and fully. Hannibal can do nothing but allow it for a moment, then nothing but return it a moment later, curling his arms around the younger man while he feels a hand snake up to his own neck.

_Not my design_ , Hannibal muses, struck by an unfamiliar roll of unchecked arousal, _but perhaps just as effective._ After all, if Will believes this seduction is his idea, it will serve to comfort him against any idea that his empathy might be feeding off Hannibal’s own desire. He smirks at the idea and allows his plan to change.

He wonders if his own control is at risk a moment later, though, when Will kisses down to his neck – to the very spot at which he has been gazing with such barely-concealed _hunger_ – and runs his tongue along the flesh there, slow and teasing. Hannibal groans at the sheer carnality of it, knowing that it's _exactly_ the kind of move he would normally be making and congratulating himself, in the distant and fading chamber of his rational mind, on the effectiveness of his chosen techniques. Hannibal tightens his grip on Will's torso, not entirely sure on what to do with the unfamiliar lust coursing through his veins but determined to get back to his own script.

Will, though, is pulling away, with a final nip of Hannibal's lips and a satisfied expression on his face. Whatever Hannibal had expected of this withdrawn, wary, guarded man, it was not this utter confidence and skill in breaking down the carefully-guarded walls of Hannibal's libido. He was certainly not expecting to feel as desperate, breathless and lustful as he is right now, watching Will look over the marks left on his neck with hooded eyes and smirking lips. And then Hannibal gives up on having expectations at all and simply feels as he and Will crash back together, all lips and tongue and hands. He hears himself gasp – a sound he does not think he has ever made before – as Will expertly rolls his hips and Hannibal feels the press of their erections together. He does not object as Will walks him back into the dining room – his seat of power – still pressed together, and crowds him up against the table. And he barely suppresses his moans as they grind together, clutching and clawing like animals, Will's teeth biting at Hannibal's earlobe.

In the end it is Will who has the presence of mind to part them, long enough to unbuckle Hannibal’s belt and remove both trousers and underwear, exposing his arousal to the air. Finally, _finally_ , at this, Hannibal comes to his senses enough to register their location and choke out an objection that sounds weak even to him.

“Will, wait. The bedroom-”

But then Will is running his fingers down Hannibal's very eager erection and Hannibal interrupts his own words with a moan, drawn out and longing.

Will tilts his head, the movement seemingly picked up from the doctor himself, and tells him, “Oh, you're not going anywhere, Hannibal.”

Hannibal knows he should object, should pull away, should do _anything_ to reclaim control of the situation. Except that Will takes his cock in his hand and begins working it firmly and Hannibal couldn't move away if the F.B.I. had a phalanx of snipers closing in on him. Instead, he allows his eyes to close, his head to fall back and his back to arch into Will's touch, groaning with pleasure as Will buries his head in the hollow of his neck and mouths at his pulse. He allows himself to coast on feelings he has always regulated and controlled, rising to a climax more intense than any he has ever felt and coming with a bitten-off curse in his native language because he can't seem to remember English just now.

This is not how he had intended the evening to go.

Will, whose hand and clothes are now coated in Hannibal's semen, strokes his hair with the other hand and Hannibal is fairly certain that had anyone else tried to pet him, in any context, their corpse would already be cooling on the floor. If not then, certainly after what happens next. Because after allowing Hannibal a chance to regain his breath, Will gently but firmly pushes him to his knees, his intent clear as the erection pushing against his jeans.

Hannibal has given blow jobs before. However, he is not the type of man who takes pleasure in relinquishing control and so he avoids them if he can. So he cannot quite understand – though he imagines it has something to do with the surfeit of post-orgasmic chemicals currently rushing through his body – why he barely hesitates before removing said jeans and pressing a kiss to the head of Will's cock.

_After all, you have been wanting a taste of Will Graham._

It is slow, at first, Hannibal sliding his lips along Will's length and looking up to watch the younger man’s enjoyment, his eyes half-closed, his breaths deep and shuddering. Then, Will smiles down at him, practically beatific, grips Hannibal by the hair and begins thrusting into his mouth. It is hard, and punishing and, as Hannibal feels Will in his throat and tears come to his eyes, he is astonished to realise that he is himself already half-hard again and terribly, desperately aroused.

_What are you, Will Graham, to do this to me?_

He claws at Will’s thighs, thinking it hard enough to break the skin but the effort it takes to breathe must be weakening him, because he leaves only faint grazes behind. At this, Will comes, filling Hannibal’s throat and leaving him no option but to swallow, the first time in a long time he has felt any reluctance over ingesting something human.

Will pulls out and collapses against the wall, leaving Hannibal to sink down, gasping for breath and covered in sweat, spit and tears. It is the most undignified position Hannibal has ever allowed himself to assume. He sees Will watching him, enraptured, as though he means to memorise ever atom of the scene.

Something inside Hannibal howls.

Something inside Hannibal purrs.

Then Will is beside him again, on his knees, kissing Hannibal deep and passionate and Hannibal can no longer tell the sounds inside him apart. His beast, only ever truly happy when watching the life leave a pig’s eyes, feels sated and content as this man, this wholly unexpected man, places his lips to Hannibal's and claims him for his own.

His mind, apparently attempting to divert the crisis Hannibal is working up to, chooses that moment to pick up on the strangely mundane detail of how cool Will's body feels. Not cold, just… lukewarm, which, given the activity in which he was just engaged, is outright strange. His semen, too, had been oddly cool, though Hannibal would not trust his sensory readings of that moment to be accurate, distracted as he was. Another biological oddity to ponder. Or perhaps it was linked. Some disorder with his metabolism, perhaps? It would explain his cool skin, his skinny frame – in spite of having demonstrated first-hand that he enjoys good food – perhaps even the lack of scent. As for which, right now Will smells of nothing so much as _Hannibal Lecter_. Of his house, of his food, of his body. And Hannibal finds no urge inside himself to do anything about that.

And then Will licks the tears from his skin and Hannibal considers, for the first time in decades, that he may be outmatched. He wars with himself for a moment between wanting to break the man – _the threat_ – in two and wanting to congratulate him on the strength of his play. Instead, he finds himself choosing the option he never thought he would, or could, contemplate. He lays down his weapons. He asks Will to stay.

“We should get cleaned up. Bathroom’s upstairs.” Not an admission of defeat in so many words, and Hannibal is merely letting go of this battle, after all, not the war, but it costs him something to say it. Yet the surprised, pleased smile that spreads across Will's face in response is a worthy trade. It is a million miles away from the confident, demanding, carnal man who fucked Hannibal’s throat and the doctor considers that who we are in bed and who we are outside can be two very different things. Giving up control in the bedroom – _or dining room_ – does not necessarily equate to a loss of control overall. Hannibal will still have Will Graham for his own, he will simply have to learn to adapt more effectively to the man’s mercurial nature.


	6. For the Want of Control

It is five months since Will Graham entered Hannibal's life. It is five months minus fifteen minutes since Hannibal decided he wanted to influence and possess Will's mind. It is six weeks since they started having sex. Hannibal is not sure how long it's been since _having sex_ turned into something more closely resembling a relationship.

He is also very worryingly unsure of how he feels about that.

Hannibal has found himself, in between bouts of sex that leave him on a high only matched by killing, performing duties of a surprisingly domestic nature. He freely admits that his generosity in feeding his social circle has always put him minutely in this sphere, though he prefers to think of his dinners as performance, rather than mere nourishment. However, he has also spent time doing the dishes with Will, sharing coffee and quiet time reading with Will, even walking the dogs with Will.

Somehow, Hannibal Lecter has turned into someone's _boyfriend_.

Not someone. Will Graham’s boyfriend, though the term is yet to be said out loud and he suspects both of them are too old and too serious to ever use it in earnest. Still, he is currently driving Will back home to Wolf Trap having spent a mutually pleasurable night together in Baltimore, and if that is not the very definition of _boyfriend duty_ , Hannibal will eat his own arm.

The fact that his hand is on Will’s thigh and Will is stroking idly at his hair does nothing to belie this impression.

He pulls the Bentley up outside Will's little house, puts it in park and takes a moment to deal with the strange sensation of missing someone who is sitting right next to you.

_What is happening to me?_

“Are you staying?” Will asks, seemingly tuning into Hannibal the way only someone of his empathic sensitivity could.

Hannibal _wants_. He wants to stay with Will, to close them up together in that tiny house and never come out. He wants to lock the car doors, drive straight back to his home and keep Will in his bed for the rest of time. He wants to fuck, and sleep and kill with Will.

He is aware that he is in a lot of trouble.

This… _thing_ , this _relationship_ has gone too far to get away from now and Hannibal fears he no longer knows if he can emerge victorious. He has not thought of killing Will in a long time and finds himself avoiding the concept. If the choice came between Will and freedom… between Will and death…

Hannibal needs to get some distance. So he says, “I'm afraid I can't tonight,” and allows himself to be swayed enough by the disappointment on Will's face to add, “but I would appreciate some coffee.” _Even the dreadful stuff you make, beloved._

Will nods, seemingly resigned to a temporary separation, and exits the car, the sound of his pack’s barking getting louder when he opens the door. Hannibal gets out too and notices, turning back to Will, that the profiler has stilled, glancing around his land as if he has sensed a threat. Hannibal is just about to enquire as to whether there is a problem when Will seems to come back to life and heads towards the house.

_The instincts of a hunter, securing his territory. You will make a fine partner, dearest of creatures._

They walk to the porch together, Will leaning close to Hannibal as if trying to fuse them together. It is a thought that often occurs to Hannibal of the way Will makes love, as if he would like to climb inside Hannibal and live there. Hannibal smiles at the thought and idly considers murdering a couple in order to bring this vision into being.

Hannibal does not allow himself to linger with Will, who continues to press for as much physical contact as possible. They come very close to having sex on Will's kitchen floor, in front of all seven dogs and it is only by great self-denial that Hannibal manages to extricate himself, knowing that any intimacy will lead to a full night in Wolf Trap. And while his body is very keen on that idea, he knows that some distance is the only way to preserve what scraps of control he still possesses.

Will walks him back out to his car and then, without warning, thrusts Hannibal against his car door and kisses him like it is punishment for leaving, hand laying possessively against his throat. That Hannibal still manages to get in the car and drive in a fairly straight line away from Will can only be down to divine intervention.

He no longer has any idea what is happening to him, or what power Will Graham is imbued with. He only knows, as he watches Will’s grin in his rearview mirror, that it is close to overpowering him and he can only hope that he was right about Will's capacity for _understanding_.


	7. Inconvenient Affection

It is possible, given the positively tender feelings Hannibal continues to have towards Will Graham, after almost seven months of knowing him, that he should feel worse about the sedative he slipped into his lover’s drink at dinner. That he feels none provides him with something of a relief. He might admit to feeling more deeply for the man slumbering in his bed than he could ever have expected but he will not allow himself to turn into a sentimental fool. Drugging Will was necessary and practical and Hannibal, former star surgeon, was unlikely to cause any ill effects.

The reason for Hannibal keeping Will safely asleep was also necessary. As his plan to twist and mould Will to Hannibal's own design has faltered, Hannibal's need to prove his continued self-control to himself has grown. And when Hannibal needs to feel himself in control, he has always turned to his more brutal instincts. Thus, he spent a few hours of this night away from the curl of Will’s embrace, engaged in bestowing the gift of _ascension_ upon a deserving pig.

Hands covered in blood, patiently creating art from an inefficient and incompetent nurse, Hannibal had felt returned to the core of himself for the first time in weeks.

It had been a good hunt.

It seems that Will, though, despite proving pliant to Hannibal's manipulations for once, is still incapable of making things easy for his lover. Though he had remained blissfully unconscious during his bedmate’s absence, he surfaces groggily when Hannibal slips back into bed and takes Will in his arms, necessitating a small lie as to his activities.

“Hannibal?” Will asks, in a sleep-thick voice. “Where'd you go?”

“I was just downstairs, Will.” The lie slips from his mouth with practiced ease, followed by a gentle kiss to the forehead. “I couldn’t sleep. Did I wake you, darling?” The endearment comes easily, too, Hannibal responding to his overwhelming urge to mark Will as his own with pet names and affection, forgoing bruises and scars for the moment. The combined effect is seemingly enough to put Will at his ease, as he responds by burying his face in Hannibal's neck – this part of his anatomy upon which Will still seems fixated – and breathing him in deeply.

Hannibal, in turn, sighs in qualified but genuine contentment. He has no answer for what lies ahead, with this man in his life. Only that he must, if possible, keep him. His kill has left him sated, reassured of his control in this, his life's work, yet he is aware of and concerned by his potential for escalation, for leaning too hard on this outlet to steady the rest of his unexpectedly unruly life. He is also aware of his dissatisfaction with Will's continued ignorance of his true nature and the resulting urge to make the message of his art plain. He has survived thus far by dint of his control, his discipline, his disinterest in claiming recognition. Yet it has become near-unbearable to keep himself hidden from Will, to see the potential for a union, a true, complete union, and not be able to take it for his own.

Hannibal realises that Will has grown still against his body, not asleep, merely as lost in thought as his lover. He wonders what is engaging the profiler's magnificent mind and, knowing he will not be able to guess, tells him, “I can hear you thinking, Will,” with a fondly teasing tone he hopes will eradicate any hint of tension.

“Thinking of you,” is the sweetly-spoken response, as Will shifts downwards so he can meet Hannibal's gaze. There is nothing but sincerity in those wide blue eyes. Yet Hannibal wants more.

“What of me?”

“About how much you matter to me.”

_Ay, there's the rub._ There is the value and the threat of Will Graham. For Hannibal does not know if those words will change, when Will sees what lies within. And Hannibal _needs_ to know, craves it like nothing before, will bargain his life and his freedom for the answer.

And so they are coming to an end point, he and Will, and Hannibal, he knows now, has never had the slightest inkling of how the scales are weighted. He knows he cannot control the outcome, cannot control Will, only that he must be present when it happens. And that it must be soon.


	8. Eat or Be Eaten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is way longer than the rest!

Hannibal should regret Will Graham. Should regret having met him. Should regret having allowed a flicker of interest to fester and metastasise, becoming something choking, like black oil sluicing his lungs. Should regret the meticulous tearing down of his guards against desire, against connection, against intimacy. He should regret his utter, abject loss of control in relation to his plans for this man, even here in his practice, where his mask, his discipline is paramount.

Yet, as Will Graham pins Hannibal against his office door and claims a long, breath-stealing kiss from him, it is not regret that Hannibal feels. It is need, to possess and _be possessed_.

And for the first time in decades, Hannibal Lecter feels fear.

He must stop this, he must, must at least secure balance, if not control. He will go as gladly with Will into true partnership as he went to his bed but he will not be a pet. They must stand as equals. _Together, or not at all._

And so he wrenches himself from Will’s eager mouth and says, “Will, stop. This is your therapy hour.”

It has no effect. Will simply chuckles and continues to mouth at Hannibal’s neck, scenting him deeply, sliding his hands with purpose towards Hannibal’s hips. And Hannibal lets him, feeling his own breath hitch and his hands clutch as Will bites at his earlobe and tugs. The younger man pulls away at this, clearly satisfied with his power, and runs his fingertips along his lover’s mouth.

“You always say that this is my time,” Will says, voice coy and teasing. “That I can do whatever I want?”He looks up at Hannibal from beneath dark lashes, his blue eyes angelic, his smile carved by the devil. “What if I want to spend it ravishing you?”

It takes everything Hannibal has not to moan with desire. He can only look at Will and beseech him, wordlessly, for space.

It seems Will is in a merciful mood. He chuckles once more and then steps back, moving to lean against the wall as Hannibal takes his customary seat, trying to make it look less like the retreat they both know it is.

“The Ripper struck again,” he states and Hannibal rejoices that he had provided Will an adequate subject for discussion.

“So soon? His last one was merely two weeks ago,” he responds, glad of the chance to slip back to propriety.

“Yeah, more bodies are dropping. With increasing frequency. It’s quite a significant shift from the Ripper’s known M.O., but it’s him. And something has got him all worked up.”

It is true. Knowing the risk of escalation and keeping that risk at bay are two very different things and Hannibal has only been able to curb himself so much. The accountant he had remade via evisceration two nights ago had been more of a necessary release than a meticulously-planned endeavour – albeit executed with Hannibal’s usual efficiency and discretion. Another in the growing list of things Hannibal finds unsettling in his own behaviour. He had worked hard to master his pathology, to bring it under his tight command. It is unthinkable, _unacceptable_ that his grasp might be slipping.

It is also inescapably true.

“Do you know what it is?”

_Do you see me? Do you know me? See me, Will, and let us end this._

“I don’t know,” Will shrugs, “and that’s driving Jack crazy.”

Hannibal smiles, minutely, a professional gesture to hide the howl of impatience riding his throat. _Shall I push you, Will, should I give you the key?_

“Tell me, Will, what makes you so sure that this is the Ripper?” he asks, giving into fascination. “You yourself said that these recent murders deviate significantly from his previous ones.”

Will shakes his head with a sigh. He is frustrated with this question, with the isolation of his insight.

“How can I not be sure?” He pushes off from the wall, slowly pacing the floor. “How can I ever mistake the Chesapeake Ripper?” His voice rises, not with anguish as Hannibal expects, but passion. “He is unique; an exemplary artist who paints with blood and flesh and death. The world is his hunting ground and it is his right to slaughter those he deems unworthy. And his mind… it’s brilliant. He’s not a psychopath or a sociopath or anything that can be confined to such mundane labels. He’s something else entirely; something unseen and unpredictable. A truly extraordinary creature.”

_What did I ever do to deserve you, my brilliant boy?_

It takes a moment for Hannibal to recover himself. It is a declaration of love, as vivid as any bloodied corpse, not for Hannibal but for the thing _inside_. For the beast that Hannibal has honed and trained and fed. For his blackened, blood-soaked soul.

It feels like triumph.

Will has turned away, standing above Hannibal’s desk, and the doctor worries he regrets the words. _That will not do_.

“You sound like you're in love.” Hannibal's voice is strained but even, attempting to avoid spooking Will.

The younger man does not respond but begins to shuffle through the sketches strewn on the desk. Hannibal, needing to assure Will that he will not be rejected, that Hannibal cherishes every aspect of him, rises from his seat and approaches.

As he moves, Will speaks again. “I admire him in a way. He has perfected his craft. That is surely worthy of commendation.”

At these words, standing behind Will, barely a breath of space between them, Hannibal knows himself in love. He watches as Will traces the charcoal-rendered lines of the Sistine Chapel and remembers how it feels to be so caressed.

“Jack Crawford would not agree with you.”

“Jack Crawford does not see the world the way I do.”

_I do._

Will’s hands continue to sort idly through the drawings, until he comes across a sketch of himself. It is one Hannibal completed not long after his first gift to Will and depicts the profiler, seated on a throne, his head tipped back and eyes closed. There are petals at his feet and a look of blissful peace upon his face. It is Will as Hannibal wants him, terrible and exquisite.

Will sighs, clearly pleased by the image and, lifting the drawing along with several below, turns to Hannibal, who smirks with pride at the effect of his vision.

Will gives a smirk of his own and says, “You are making it extremely hard not to rip off your clothes and fuck you against your precious antique desk, doctor.”

From the image that lights up his mind at this, Hannibal knows Will Graham has torn every shred of propriety or discipline from him. He tries, mightily, to restrain himself: “I would rather you did not.” It is almost convincing. “I have lost far too many excellent suits to your… enthusiasm.”

“ _My_  enthusiasm? I don’t recall you being all that reluctant, Hannibal.”

Hannibal can only smirk again in response to the truth of that statement.

And then Will turns back to the drawings and, as they look down together, Hannibal is only glad that, now the moment is here, he is alone with Will, as he had wished.

Beneath Will’s hands is a copy of the _Wound Man_ illustration. Not a strange thing for a surgeon to draw and perhaps not normally worth commenting on, save for the quality of its execution. Save for the fact that it also serves as a portrait of Jeremy Olmstead and the manner of his death. Save for the fact that Will, more familiar with the works of the Chesapeake Ripper than any other person outside this room, will recognise the Ripper’s sixth victim without question and force the reckoning Hannibal has been so keen to meet.

Hannibal had not expected this to be the way it happened. Though he had left the drawing there, just to give fate one extra opportunity.

Will looks up and Hannibal is encouraged by the lack of betrayal on his face. He knows Will cannot simply take this in stride but perhaps his understanding of his lover has progressed further than Hannibal had hoped. Or perhaps his attachment is as undeniable as Hannibal's has become.

“What now, Will?” he asks, and there is sorrow as well as anticipation in his voice, at the fact that they must change now, whatever the outcome.

“You tell me,” Will responds, and if Hannibal had expected fragility, he finds none in the man opposite him, who takes a step forwards and licks his lips as Hannibal instinctively tenses for a fight.

The same question, over and over again, since almost the moment of this man’s entry into Hannibal’s life.

_What are you, Will Graham?_

“I don’t want to hurt you, Will. In fact, I would like for us to go on as before.” It is not the truth, not quite, because Hannibal wants far more from Will than has been given so far. But he truly takes no relish in the idea of hurting Will and only pain in the idea of killing him.

“And just ignore your extracurricular activities? Hmm… I can do that.” Hannibal knows Will is lying, too. His acceptance would never come so easily, would never come so cheap. “You’re not going to hurt me, Hannibal.” There is a confidence to his tone Hannibal has heard only during their lovemaking and he hears the unspoken statement at the end of those words: _because you can't._

Will steps forward again and Hannibal is slowly beginning to realise that he does not know the man in front of him at all. The lowered eyes, the hunched posture, the twitching limbs, all are gone and in place is emerging a sinuous, powerful predator. A beast.

Hannibal is reminded of nothing so much but himself.

He holds his ground, unsure but indomitable, and tries to calculate as Will goes on.

“But I'm afraid I'm not too interested in going on as before. That would be far too… dull.” Hannibal accepts his words as a blow, feeling their impact as Will continues to advance until they are nearly touching. And yet… _too dull?_

_What do you want, Will? Kiss or kill?_

Will answers as if he has heard the thought, cupping Hannibal's face and gently, feather-light, kissing his lips. Hannibal feels his heart rise as Will murmurs, eyes shut from the kiss, “I would like to avoid hurting you as well.”

Hannibal cannot trap the smile that curls against Will's mouth but he does not yet respond as Will kisses him again, still unsure of the man’s intentions. Will makes a peeved noise at this lack of reciprocity and moves his hands to Hannibal's shoulders. Then he pulls back, opens his eyes and Hannibal feels the world tilt on its axis.

For Will's eyes, normally a bright blue that seems to shift with his emotions, are now red. The red of rubies, of wine, of – _how apt_ , Hannibal thinks – blood.

_What are you, Will?_

There is only time enough for this thought before Will shoves him towards the desk with a strength his body should not contain. Hannibal's finely honed balance and strength are not enough to keep him steady and he is only able to find his feet a moment before Will is on him, hauling him up onto the desk.

_First mistake, dear Will_. Hannibal's hand finds purchase on one of his scalpels and, as Will scents him and a theory begins to form, unbidden, in Hannibal's mind, he thrusts up and into Will's chest.

For a moment, Hannibal believes the sound he hears is Will choking on his own blood. Then he realises, with a sickening twist of his stomach, that it is laughter. Will is laughing as he looks down at the blade buried inside him. And he keeps laughing as he pulls it free.

“I knew you would put up a fight,” he whispers, impossible fondness in his voice. Hannibal's gaze is fixed to Will's chest, mesmerised by the sight of his skin knitting itself back together, healing without a mark. His mind is too full of shock to compel his body into defence and he lays still as Will presses a palm to his chest and then to Hannibal's face, smearing it with blood. With the same tone, almost kind, he tells Hannibal, “If you meant any less to me, I would have hunted you; thrown you in the woods and chased you. We would’ve had so much fun.”

Hannibal realises then, strangely, that he is not afraid of Will. His mind is a maelstrom of questions, his senses overloaded, but he feels no fear. He had wanted an end, for Will to see the truth of him. He had not known that he had understood so little of Will’s truth himself but he is ready and eager to have it. To have an answer for the question that has plagued him for months.

“What are you?”

He knows the answer before it is given.

“Nothing human.”

Will smiles, and there is nothing human in that, too. He leans over Hannibal, until their mouths hover close and murmurs, “You asked if I’m in love with you. I can’t love, Hannibal. But I do _want_.”

It is not a kiss Will gives Hannibal then, it is a warning. He rips at his lover’s mouth with too-sharp teeth and laps at the blood that gushes forth. Hannibal jerks, in shock and pain but feels the pull of arousal as well, desire budding inside where none should be. He feels Will pull back, shaking with effort, and does not know whether to shove him off or drag him back down. As if the choice could ever be his.

Will looks down at his creation, with a smile of pure satisfaction. “I know it’s the cannibalism… but you do taste absolutely _divine_.” Then they are kissing again, wild, primal and bloody. Hannibal has no concept of how long it goes on, only of Will’s weight above him, the feel of his cool skin as it presses him down. They part only when Will allows it, caressing Hannibal's cheek and licking the blood from his cheekbone.

Then Will says, “I’ve wanted this for so long, Hannibal. Wanted _you_ , with no pretence between us.”

Hannibal tenses at this, not to fight or flee – he knows he has lost, that he lost long ago – but simply because Will has voiced the thought that has driven Hannibal for all these months. And it is too much, this last defeat, to know that he has been played at his own game and proven the weaker man. He feels the last of himself break.

Will takes it as a threat, though, and with speed born of something Hannibal cannot quite bring himself to name, he drags the doctor off the desk and pulls him to stand with his back flush to Will's chest, his arms vice-like in warning.

“Don’t do that, _mon cher._ Not now. I have no wish to cause you pain. I know you’re powerful but you’re still only human. You can’t win, not against me.” Will sounds at once calm and manic, utterly composed yet alight with the thrill of hunting.

It is a sensation Hannibal is familiar with.

Being prey, however, is new.

“What exactly do you intend to do, William?” It is not fear that prompts the question, merely professional curiosity. From one hunter to another.

Will buries his face in Hannibal's hair and, tightening his grip, says “I'm going to fuck you,” sliding a hand down to the erection Hannibal knows he should not have. He controls himself enough not to arch into the touch.

_Not my personal method but I suspect I'll enjoy your work._

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards… I suppose I'll have to kill you.”

Hannibal respects the honesty.

And yet… perhaps there is a chance here, to end this in the way Hannibal had always intended. After all, Will is clearly a killer, a mirror of Hannibal's own monster. He is not going to turn Hannibal in to Uncle Jack. And whatever Will is, he sought Hannibal's company as much as Hannibal sought his. Went to bed with him eagerly. Spent months in what could only be termed a relationship.

_Will craves companionship, too._

If Hannibal shows him that he is open to this possibility, perhaps there is a way this ends well for them both.

And so, after a moment, Hannibal allows himself to relax, finally pressing himself against Will’s waiting hand. As Will responds, Hannibal turns his head and seeks a kiss, as if to signal surrender.

Satisfied, Will breaks from him and says, mocking, “I guess your suit isn't going to survive after all.” Which prediction proves true in the next moment as Will rips shirt, vest and jacket all from Hannibal in one powerful motion. Not yet entirely lost to himself, Hannibal makes a noise of displeasure but allows it to turn to a moan as Will returns to his erection, rubbing through his trousers and grinding himself against Hannibal from behind. He kisses along the exposed flesh of Hannibal's shoulders and up his neck, pausing to bite again at his earlobe before turning Hannibal for a kiss, suddenly gentle and tender.

“You should know,” Will murmurs, leaving only a breath between them, “that before you, I have never mixed food with sex.”

Hannibal doesn't have time to parse the meaning behind that before Will is kissing him again while divesting him of the rest of his clothes. From his jeans Will produces a bottle of lubricant – they have taken to carrying it with them, a result of a tendency for spontaneous sex – and lifts Hannibal back onto the desk, telling him to lay flat on his back. Will is being uncharacteristically gentle and Hannibal wonders vaguely if this is part of the game before Will begins massaging his entrance and his mind empties. Will bends to kiss at the corner of his mouth before, as he runs his tongue along Hannibal's ruined mouth, pushing a finger inside, drawing a hiss from Hannibal. Will smirks.

He prepares Hannibal carefully and thoroughly, a partner taking the necessary precautions with his lover, rather than a beast about to overwhelm its prey.

Hannibal is not convinced of the performance.

It matters little, though, as Hannibal finds himself moaning in pleasure, the burn subsiding as Will thrusts deep inside him. What little there is left of Hannibal still capable of manipulation decides simply to match Will’s performance and raises a hand to grab his curls and draw him into a kiss. Hannibal slides his tongue inside Will’s mouth and runs it along his teeth.

Will jolts back, finally affected by Hannibal's action. He watches for a reaction as the pieces of the puzzle Hannibal has so doggedly pursued come together.

_Cold skin. No scent. No marks on his flesh._

_Vampire._

Hannibal has just kissed a creature with fangs.

_You never cease to fascinate me, Will Graham._

Will, able to read mere mortals at a glance, must see the lack of fear, the intrigue, the delight.

For Will smiles, slicing his own lips on elongated canines. And Hannibal feels only a clawing lust at the sight of blood.

_Not such different appetites, then._

At Hannibal's reaction, Will adds another finger, eyes always on Hannibal's, and curls them expertly, grazing his prostate. Hannibal feels electric desire burst inside him and snarls, his beast emerging to meet Will's, which shows no mercy, repeating the motion again and again until Hannibal is helpless with lust.

Will is watching, with something akin to reverence on his face. “You are magnificent,” he whispers, stealing another kiss, allowing Hannibal to lap at the blood on his lips. “And I'm not letting you go.”

Hannibal should feel satisfaction at this. Yet, he feels a frown crease his brow. Through the haze of lust, he is not sure what Will means by that.

_Vampires are not born, they are made._

Will is not giving him time to think, though, and he has no chance to redress the scales. Whatever is going to happen, Hannibal must allow it to reach its conclusion, or Will will finish him, here and now.

Playing along, Hannibal makes a displeased noise when Will removes his hand, and allows his lover to manoeuvre him into position, legs thrown across Will's shoulders. He makes no sound as Will enters him, pushing firm and deep until they are fully joined. It is only when Will squeezes gently at his erection that he allows a cry to slip forth, the contact sparking brilliantly within. Will is gentle still, as he starts to move, rocking slow and steady, stroking Hannibal in perfect unison.

It feels wonderful. But Hannibal knows it is not what Will wants. Beasts do not mate with care and tenderness. And so Hannibal digs his heels into Will’s back and growls, “Just move.”

And Will does, snapping his hips and thrusting into Hannibal without restraint, nails scratching as he continues to pull at Hannibal's length.

Hannibal knows himself a beast then, in the shuddering, glorious thrill of Will inside him.

He knows little else, other than the sound of his voice as it moans Will's name, until Will is speaking again, words Hannibal should be scared of, should fight to escape.

“I'm sorry.”

But he can do neither, as Will strokes faster, stronger, and Hannibal is coming, calling Will’s name through an orgasm he feels in every cell of his body, that feels like a thousand bells ringing, like the swell of a wave and its crash to the shore.

It is only when Will runs a hand through his hair, then yanks it back to expose his throat, that Hannibal knows the apology is for what's yet to come. Instinctively, he tries to throw Will off but he is held down by impossibly strong arms as Will presses kisses against his throat, fangs grazing the skin. Then Will pulls back for what Hannibal knows is one last look…

And bites down, jaws clenching around Hannibal's throat as he feels his flesh give way, Will drawing blood out of him in great waves. Hannibal screams as Will orgasms, still buried deep within him, still drinking greedily from his veins.

And then the pain is gone, replaced with such heady pleasure that Hannibal cannot process it. He feels bliss, beyond anything he has felt in his life, beyond anything natural. He writhes, ecstatic, against Will, who strokes at him gently even as he continues to steal his life. His body weakens but the feeling does not, Hannibal unable to stop himself melting against Will, overcome by euphoria. He feels his breath coming ragged, his hand slip from Will's hair, his body sag against the desk.

At this, Hannibal is faintly aware that Will finally wrenches himself from his throat, licking at the wound he has left and then pulling back completely.

_Finish it, I am done fighting you, my dearest Will._

Will presses his cheek to Hannibal's, breathing deep, and then, strange and unpredictable even to the last, kisses the tip of Hannibal’s nose and says “I'm keeping you.”

The last thing Hannibal sees, before it goes dark, is Will Graham, the man – _the beast_ – he had thought to control and possess, bite down on his own wrist and bring it, blood welling, to Hannibal’s slack mouth.

The last thing he hears is, “Drink.”

The last thing he thinks is: _Either I will die at his hand, or spend eternity by his side. Gladly I go to my fate._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to Silverfeathered_Angel for allowing me to play in her world - I hope I did it justice.
> 
> This is the longest piece of fiction I've written (well, adapted) ever. Thanks for taking the time. I would love to know what you think, so have at it in the comments!
> 
> P.S. Quick question re: longer fics. Do people prefer the chapter-by-chapter approach to posting, or just getting it in a oner? Personally, as a reader I prefer to wait for the complete story before I get stuck in (nothing so heartbreaking as a fic with potential, left to languish with a question mark next to its chapter count). I'd be interested to know what others think, though, just in case I try something like this again. Cheers.


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